


God of the Cold, Cold Wars

by HigherMagic



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ghosts, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Amnesia, Angst, Arson, Body Horror, Gun Violence, Haunting, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Murder, Not Happy, Will Graham Knows
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-06
Updated: 2018-04-06
Packaged: 2019-04-19 01:29:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14226156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HigherMagic/pseuds/HigherMagic
Summary: Winston barks again, more loudly, and Will raises his head, humming when he sees the sleek top of a car approaching his home. The sunlight glints off the tinted windows and Will goes to his side table, watching as the dark-colored car comes to a halt in his driveway. The cloud of exhaust stops and the car settles with a series of low hums and pops, and the door opens. Will's smile widens when he sees who it is. Of course, he knows the car, but it feels surreal until the man himself steps out.





	God of the Cold, Cold Wars

**Author's Note:**

> I would like to apologize in advance for the incoherent mess this fic is. But at least it's out of my system! Please note the tags.  
> 

The morning is bright and crisp, birds chirping through the thin-paned glass, sunlight streaming in through the gap in the curtains that Will can never quite close. It steaks across his face, warming his skin. He sighs, rolling onto his other side, and buries his face in his arm.

As much as he would like to remain in bed for longer, he has about two minutes before his alarm goes off, and once that happens, the dogs will start to ask for breakfast. They know better than to wake Will unless in need of urgent bathroom care, and so Will knows he can float in gentle half-sleep for a few moments more before they start barking.

He sighs, pushing himself upright, and rubs a hand over his face. His dreams had been mercifully gentle with him, thank God, and he feels somewhat well-rested. He reaches for his glasses on the bedside table and puts them on, blinking at the red lights of his alarm clock.

Three…two…

The clock ticks over to seven in the morning and starts to beep at him, and he sighs and shuts it off. He pushes the blankets off of his legs and gets to his feet, rubbing his hands through his hair to calm it from the wayward mess of tangled knots as he pads to the bathroom to wash his face.

He takes his glasses off, splashes cold water on his cheeks, and rubs the corners of his eyes to get rid of the itchy clumps of sleep still gathered there, before he puts his glasses back on. He rubs at his jaw, cracks his neck sharply to one side until the knots at the base of his neck pop, and straightens up with another sigh.

One more day in paradise.

He goes downstairs and pauses. The dogs are still asleep, which is strange, but not unwelcome. He pours their food into their bowls and sets them out, figuring they can sort out amongst themselves who gets the most food. Even Buster, who's downright greedy, doesn't stir.

He smiles, and wraps a robe around his shoulders, and steps outside. The ground is covered in snow as it has been for the last few days, ice packed deep into the ground like winter is still digging her nails into the Earth, refusing to let go.

He takes in a few deep, cleansing breaths of air, watching his breath mist and float away on the light breeze. He keeps the door open in case any of his dogs want to use the bathroom, but after a few moments, the cold shoos him back inside.

Winston lifts his head, tail wagging, and lets out a soft woof of greeting. Will smiles at him and pets his head, before he goes to the kitchen to make coffee. His Keurig machine is cracked at the bottom where he dropped it during his last move, he's had it longer than any of his animals have been alive. Still, it bubbles and steams away as he sets a mug under the tap and watches it fill. It had been a gift from his father when he went off to college.

Will checks his phone while the coffee pours. No new messages from Jack, or Alana. Figures. It's like they've forgotten all about him, ever since Will was forced onto medical leave after being shot in the chest. It still aches, and even as he thinks about it, the wound under his collarbone, in his shoulder, stings sharply. He rubs at it absently, humming as the machine finishes, and takes his mug, drinking the scalding coffee despite how it burns his tongue.

Winston barks again, more loudly, and Will raises his head, humming when he sees the sleek top of a car approaching his home. The sunlight glints off the tinted windows and Will goes to his side table, watching as the dark-colored car comes to a halt in his driveway.

The cloud of exhaust stops and the car settles with a series of low hums and pops, and the door opens.

Will's smile widens when he sees who it is. Of course, he knows the car, but it feels surreal until the man himself steps out.

Will goes to the door and lets it open as Hannibal approaches his porch. "Good morning, Doctor Lecter," he greets. Jack had given Will to Hannibal's care after being shot, once he'd gotten out of the hospital. Will doesn't blame him, especially considering all the circumstances that had led up to his accident. Or attempted murder, depending on which way you look at things.

Hannibal blinks at him, like he's surprised. "Hello, Will," he says, and smiles as he steps inside and shrugs off his coat. "You're looking well."

Will hums. "Would you like some coffee?" he asks.

Hannibal regards his steaming mug for a moment, before he shakes his head. "No, thank you," he says. He's holding his medical bag and Will knows within it is his breakfast. Hannibal always cooks for himself. He walks in and takes a seat at the table by the window and Will takes the one opposite, settling in place with a sigh.

They regard each other for a long moment. Hannibal looks at Will like he expects him to disappear between one blink and the next. Sometimes Will feels faded – his nightmares, when they do come, are fierce and dark – but today feels like a good day. The kind of things recovering addicts hope to live to see.

Will smiles. "It's good to see you," he says.

"I'm surprised you remember me," Hannibal replies.

Will tilts his head to one side, frowning. "Why wouldn't I?" he asks.

Hannibal sighs, and shakes his head. "It doesn't matter," he murmurs. He opens his bag and takes out a small Tupperware bowl, the lid steaming with the food inside. Will takes a deep breath and hums at the scent of chicken, rice, and eggs. "How are you feeling today?"

"Good," Will says. He looks down and bites his lower lip. "How are Jack and Alana?"

"The same." Hannibal regards him again and Will shifts his weight. He gets the impression that he's missing something. "They miss you dearly."

"Well, they know where I am," Will says darkly. "They can visit whenever they want."

Hannibal pauses. He takes a fork wrapped in a napkin from his bag, unravels it, and starts to eat. "When was the last time you saw them?" he asks.

Will frowns and tries to think. "It was snowing," he says, and huffs when he realizes that doesn't exactly narrow it down. But it can't have been that long, can it? Hannibal hums, neither offering more information nor denying it. "Are they worried about me?"

Hannibal smiles. "No," he replies kindly. Will's frown deepens.

He huffs and takes another drink of coffee. It's much colder now, he no longer feels the warmth of it in his hands. Outside, the sky has gotten dark, the sun swallowed by storm clouds. "Maybe I'll go somewhere," Will says.

"Where would you go?"

Will shrugs one shoulder. "Anywhere," he replies. "Or nowhere. I don't know. Just not here."

Hannibal smiles again. "Do you remember how we talked of Italy?" he asks. Will nods, pressing his lips together, his eyes downcast. "I think you would like it there."

"I need someone to watch the dogs," he says.

Hannibal blinks, and swallows, taking another bite of his food. "Of course." He sounds disappointed.

Will shakes his head, and takes another drink of coffee. Outside, it starts to snow.

 

 

The morning is bright and crisp, birds chirping through the thin-paned glass, sunlight streaming in through the gap in the curtains that Will can never quite close. It steaks across his face, warming his skin. He sighs, rolling onto his other side, and buries his face in his arm.

As much as he would like to remain in bed for longer, he has about two minutes before his alarm goes off, and once that happens, the dogs will start to ask for breakfast. They know better than to wake Will unless in need of urgent bathroom care, and so Will knows he can float in gentle half-sleep for a few moments more before they start barking.

He sighs, pushing himself upright, and rubs a hand over his face. His dreams had been white and calm, thank God, and he feels somewhat well-rested. He reaches for his glasses on the bedside table and puts them on, blinking at the red lights of his alarm clock.

Three…two…

The clock ticks over to seven in the morning and starts to beep at him, and he sighs and shuts it off. He pushes the blankets off of his legs and gets to his feet, rubbing his hands through his hair to calm it from the wayward mess of tangled knots as he pads to the bathroom to wash his face.

He takes his glasses off, splashes cold water on his cheeks, and rubs the corners of his eyes to get rid of the itchy clumps of sleep still gathered there, before he puts his glasses back on. He rubs at his jaw, cracks his neck sharply to one side until the knots at the base of his neck pop, and straightens up with another sigh.

One more day in paradise.

He rubs his hands together, shivering in the cold, and freezes when he hears movement downstairs. It's the steps of a man, he knows what his dogs sound like. Why didn't they make any noise?

He presses his lips together and turns off the light in his bathroom, prowling silently to his bedside table. In the first drawer sits his pistol, loaded, and he takes it and checks the round is sitting snugly, ready to fire. He doesn't hear movement again downstairs.

He goes to his bedroom door, his heart pounding, and opens it slowly. He can see a shadow of movement cross the stairs and holds his gun ready in both hands, one shoulder against the wall as he takes the stairs slowly down.

There's a streak of blood on the wood at the bottom of the stairs. Will presses his lips together, tilts his head to one side to listen, and there's another whisper of sound coming from the kitchen.

He takes the last few steps quickly and swings his gun around, gasping when he sees a man standing in his kitchen, the body of a dead man dragging behind him. "Hold it right there," he demands, and even though his voice shakes his hands are steady as he lifts his gun.

The man stops, and turns. He's tall, well-dressed, sandy hair elegantly pushed back, sharp cheekbones colored with the exertion of hauling the body inside. He looks at Will with something like recognition, and smiles at him, before he turns back to the dead man.

He hauls the man up onto the counter and Will barks out another command; "Stop!"

The man shakes his head, huffing a gentle laugh. He has a leather bag by his feet, and Will watches as he bends down to open it, uncaring for the blood dripping onto the shoulder of his waistcoat.

"Will," he says, his voice soft with affection, accent think. European. "We both know you're not going to shoot me."

"Who are you?" Will demands, tightening his grip on his gun.

The man turns again, smiling. He's holding a saw in his hand and Will swallows. "Put that down," he says, unnerved by the man's total lack of fear when he looks at Will. Will is, after all, holding a Goddamn gun to his face.

"You mustn't strain yourself, my dear," the man replies. He nods to Will's pistol. "And that won't hurt me."

Will growls, lifts the weapon, and fires. The bullet goes straight through the man's chest and embeds itself in the wooden cabinets on the other side of him. Will's eyes widen. The man smiles, and sets the saw down, walking slowly towards him. Will fires again, and the man remains just as untouched.

His hands are warm when they cradle Will's around his gun, and he gently forces it out of Will's grip. His fingers are bloody when he cups Will's face. Will trembles, his eyes wide and his heart pounding heavily in his neck.

"What are you?" he asks. He has never been a believer in the paranormal, but two bullets to the chest would have killed anyone, or at least made them drop. He doesn't even see holes where his bullets flew. He tries to shy away, to run, but he can't. The man is holding his head too tightly.

The man sighs, looking almost sad as his eyes track over Will's face. He has lovely eyes, dark like sunlight shining through dead leaves while they still cling to their branches, before they fall. The man cups his cheek and then puts a hand over his eyes.

"Go back to sleep, Will," he murmurs, and kisses Will's forehead. Will can smell the blood on his hands. "Make it all go away, and forget."

 

 

The morning is bright and crisp, birds chirping through the thin-paned glass, sunlight streaming in through the gap in the curtains that Will can never quite close. It steaks across his face, warming his skin. He sighs, rolling onto his other side, and buries his face in his arm.

As much as he would like to remain in bed for longer, he has about two minutes before his alarm goes off, and once that happens, the dogs will start to ask for breakfast. They know better than to wake Will unless in need of urgent bathroom care, and so Will knows he can float in gentle half-sleep for a few moments more before they start barking.

He sighs, pushing himself upright, and rubs a hand over his face. His dreams had been -.

No.

No, his dreams had _not_ been.

Will staggers to his feet and hears his dogs barking outside of his room. He runs to his phone and calls Jack. No answer. The phone doesn't even dial out. The storm must have knocked out the nearest cell tower.

He looks at the screen, growling in frustration, and throws it onto his bed. He has to get outside. He has to -.

 

 

The morning is bright and crisp, birds chirping through the thin-paned glass, sunlight streaming in through the gap in the curtains that Will can never quite close. It steaks across his face, warming his skin. He sighs, rolling onto his other side, and buries his face in his arm.

As much as he would like to remain in bed for longer, he has about two minutes before his alarm goes off, and once that happens, the dogs will start to ask for breakfast. They know better than to wake Will unless in need of urgent bathroom care, and so Will knows he can float in gentle half-sleep for a few moments more before they start barking.

He sighs, pushing himself upright, and rubs a hand over his face. His dreams had been mercifully gentle with him, thank God, and he feels somewhat well-rested. He reaches for his glasses on the bedside table and puts them on, blinking at the red lights of his alarm clock.

Three…two…

The clock ticks over to seven in the morning and starts to beep at him, and he sighs and shuts it off. He pushes the blankets off of his legs and gets to his feet, rubbing his hands through his hair to calm it from the wayward mess of tangled knots as he pads to the bathroom to wash his face.

He takes his glasses off, splashes cold water on his cheeks, and rubs the corners of his eyes to get rid of the itchy clumps of sleep still gathered there, before he puts his glasses back on. He rubs at his jaw, cracks his neck sharply to one side until the knots at the base of his neck pop, and straightens up with another sigh.

One more day in paradise.

He hears his dogs stirring and goes downstairs to feed them. They rub up against his legs, tails wagging wildly, letting out soft woofs and barks of greeting as he pours their food into their bowls and lets the feeding frenzy take place.

He sighs, and goes back to his kitchen. He is in dire need of coffee.

He frowns when he approaches the Keurig, seeing a thick layer of dust covering the machine. He swipes a fingers across it, wipes it between his thumb and forefinger.

"Strange…" he murmurs. How long had he been asleep?

Winston comes into the kitchen, barking at him, and Will lifts his head to look outside. He smiles when he sees the sleek top of a car approaching his home. The sunlight glints off the tinted windows and Will goes to his side table, watching as the dark-colored car comes to a halt in his driveway.

The cloud of exhaust stops and the car settles with a series of low hums and pops, and the door opens.

Will's smile widens when he sees who it is. Of course, he knows the car, but it feels surreal until the man himself steps out. Hannibal stands tall, his dark coat splitting the expanse of white snow and dead grass. Will goes to the door and opens it as he approaches.

Hannibal smiles at him, and comes up to him, cupping the back of his neck. Will lifts his mouth for a kiss and Hannibal meets him, his lips are warm and tender against Will's. Will sighs, stepping back to allow Hannibal inside, and closes the door.

"I've missed you," Will murmurs, reaching out to touch Hannibal's coat sleeve as the man steps into the house. The warmth in the house brings a flush of color to his cheeks, and his eyes are bright and happy when he turns back to look at Will.

"I'm sorry it's been so long," he replies.

Will nods, thinking of the Keurig. "How long this time?" he asks.

Hannibal sighs. "A week."

"Did you visit every day?"

Hannibal nods again. "I always do."

Will smiles, looking down and wrapping his robe tighter around his shoulders. "I don't remember the last night I had," he says, and Hannibal presses his lips together. He comes forward and cups Will's cheek and Will lets out a rough sound, his forehead tucked to Hannibal's neck. Hannibal is always so warm, scalding like fresh coffee against Will's forehead. "Why don't I ever remember?"

"I don't know," Hannibal replies. "I'm trying, Will. I'm trying so hard to bring you back."

Will nods, pressing his lips together. He feels tears behind his eyes and tries to fight them back. Hannibal always looks so sad when he cries. "Tell me again how it happened," he says. "I'll remember this time."

Hannibal lets out a low, mournful hum. He wraps his arms around Will and holds him tightly. "No, you won't," he replies.

Will huffs. Perhaps Hannibal is right. He never does.

But Hannibal indulges him, because he always indulges Will. He can't help it. He pulls back and leads Will to his couch, lets him sit and takes his place beside Will. Will leans against him, and puts his head on Hannibal's shoulder, closing his eyes when Hannibal pets through his hair.

"We were hunting a killer," Hannibal says. "He was a convicted felon and had escaped his hospital ward. He killed a nurse, and he had killed his wife and children many years previously."

Will nods, brow furrowing. Strange – he doesn't remember that part. "Did we catch him?"

"You caught him," Hannibal replies. "Put a gun to his head and tried to put him down. You were sick." Hannibal sighs. "I think that's why you keep forgetting. Your brain is still on fire, darling."

"I don't know how to fix it," Will whispers, his voice breaking on the last words. He lifts his head and Hannibal looks at him. "Can't you help me?"

"I'm trying," Hannibal replies. His eyes are shining with sorrow, Will can see his sadness in the creases around his eyes and the thin line of his mouth. His hand tightens in Will's hair and Will sucks in a breath. "Do you trust me?"

"Always," Will murmurs. He puts a hand over Hannibal's chest to feel his heart.

Hannibal's mouth twitches in a smile, and he leans in for another kiss that Will eagerly grants him. His fingers feel weak and faded and he lets out a soft moan, half pleasure and half sorrow.

Will sighs when Hannibal pulls back. "Maybe you should just let me go," he murmurs.

"No," Hannibal growls, his hand tightening in Will's hair. "Never."

"I could go anywhere."

"Or nowhere."

Will presses his lips together and rests his forehead on Hannibal's shoulder again. "Maybe, if I woke up with you next to me, I'd remember," he whispers. "Will you stay?"

"I can't," Hannibal replies. Will closes his eyes. He expected that answer. "You know I can't."

"Sometimes it's easier to pretend," Will replies quietly.

"I know, my dear," Hannibal says. He kisses Will's forehead and wraps the fingers of his free hand without Will's. Will doesn't even feel his touch. He's already fading again. "I'll find a way for you. For both of us."

 

 

Three…two…

The clock ticks over to seven in the morning and starts to beep at him, and Will sighs and shuts it off. He throws the blankets off of his legs and gets to his feet, rubbing his hands through his hair to calm his shaking fingers. He goes to the bathroom and stares at himself in the reflection. He looks sallow and thin and can see the edge of the door through his own neck.

He takes his glasses off, manages to force the faucet on after a few attempts, and splashes cold water on his cheeks, and rubs the corners of his eyes to get rid of the itchy clumps of sleep still gathered there. He rubs at his jaw, cracks his neck sharply to one side until the knots at the base of his neck pop, and straightens up with another sigh.

One more day in paradise.

Will sucks in a breath and falls to his knees in front of his bathroom mirror. It's cracked and faded. He curls his knuckles around the edge of the sink and sobs, the heavy cancer of decay and sorrow choking his throat and sitting on his shoulders.

He just wants it to be _over_.

 

 

The morning is bright and crisp, birds chirping through the thin-paned glass, sunlight streaming in through the gap in the curtains that Will can never quite close. It steaks across his face, warming his skin. He sighs, rolling onto his other side, and buries his face in his arm.

Glass breaks downstairs and Will goes stiff. He sits up and sees that his room is a mess of dust, particles dancing in the shaft of light. His blankets don't move, but he moves through them, unafraid as he goes downstairs. His feet make no sound as he rounds the corner and sees a man standing in his kitchen, tall and well-dressed, his back turned.

"Who are you?" Will whispers, surprised when the man hears him. He straightens up and turns and Will thinks he should recognize his face, but he doesn't. He looks around. "Where are my dogs?"

"It's been years, Will," the man replies. How does he know Will's name? "They want to sell the house."

Will's eyes snap to the man, wide and not understanding. "…But I live here," he says weakly.

The man smiles. "I know," he replies. "I'm not going to let them take it from you."

"Where are my dogs?" Will whispers again.

The man sighs, shaking his head. He looks visibly distressed and Will doesn't understand why. "God, I wish you could remember," he says quietly, and it sounds like his heart is breaking. Will doesn't understand.

"Who are you?" he asks.

The man sighs again and approaches him. Will flinches back, through the wall and into his living room. It's barren, the couches and chairs covered with the kinds of heavy white sheets people put in old houses to preserve the furniture. He rubs his hands through his hair and sees a mirror on top of the mantle. There's a hole in the wall next to it.

The man comes into view at the door and Will looks at him, afraid and frantic. He feels the irresistible urge to tear the covers off of the couch.

He does so, gasping when he sees a huge bloodstain on the material. He presses a hand to his chest and feels a sharp, aching throb, like from a fresh wound. There's blood on his fingers when he holds his hand up to the light.

"Will," the man says, and approaches Will again. He cups Will's hand and Will gasps when he sees the man's fingers almost pass through him. He doesn't stain the man with his blood. "I'm going to help you. But you must trust me."

"Who are you?" Will demands again, shaking finely. He looks up and meets the man's dark eyes.

The man manages a small, faded smile. It looks how Will feels. "Go to sleep, my love," he says, and puts a hand over Will's eyes. The darkness is terrifying. "Wade into the quiet of the stream."

 

 

Will snaps awake at the sound of his alarm beeping. He tears the thing out and throws it across the room. He's covered in sweat, soaked to the bone with it, and he grabs blindly for his phone and calls Hannibal.

There is no answer, but Will hears a phone ringing downstairs.

He stumbles to his feet and rushes downstairs. He hears a low whimper and sees Winston come from the kitchen, head and tail hanging low.

There are two men in his living room. He recognizes the swoop of his own hair, can smell the blood. He presses his lips together and comes forward. The version of him on the couch is pale and sweaty, just as he is now, and Hannibal kneels at his feet. Blood leaks from the wound in his shoulder profusely.

"Stay with me, darling," Hannibal says. His hands are steady as he sews the wound shut. But it's too late. Will lost too much blood. His eyes close and his breath stutters, chest sinking in. "No, no, no, don't you dare leave. Stay with me."

Will presses his lips together. He comes forward and puts a hand on Hannibal's shoulder, but he doesn't feel the man's warmth, or solidness. "I'm sorry," he whispers. The version of him on his couch breathes his last and Hannibal shudders, shoving himself to his feet, cupping Will's head.

He kisses Will, tries to force air back into his lungs, forces him onto his back to press his hands against his chest, keep his heart beating. The problem isn't his heart. There's simply not enough blood to sustain his body.

Will kneels down as Hannibal goes still, realizing what he is seeing. The dead air in his lungs escapes and Hannibal lets out a shaky, quiet sound. Like a wounded dog. Winston passes through Will as he kneels and licks his master's cooling hand.

"Don't leave me," Hannibal says. There are tears in his eyes and Will wants to reach out and touch him, but he can't. He curls up and puts his back to the fireplace, his hands in his hair.

Then, the vision fades, and the door opens. The cloth is back on the couch. The layer of dust feels heavy on Will's shoulders.

Will lifts his head and whimpers when Hannibal's eyes find him. "Please," he says.

Hannibal comes to him, kneeling down swiftly. He takes Will's hands. "Which part of me did you leave behind?" Will asks. "That's the only reason I can still be here. I should be rotting in the ground."

"I would never allow that," Hannibal replies.

Will bares his teeth, his fingers curling within Hannibal's hands. "My heart?" he asks. "My stomach?"

Hannibal manages a weak smile. "Your brain," he says.

"Just eat it," Will growls. "Eat it and be done with me. I won't stay fresh forever."

Hannibal cocks his head to one side. "Do you want to die?"

"This isn't death. This isn't life. You're selfish."

"When you love me, you're selfish too."

Will shakes his head vehemently. "I don't love you," he growls, and he knows Hannibal knows it's a lie. "Where is my brain?"

"In my home," Hannibal says. "I've tried to take you there. You always wake up back here. I don't know why."

Will looks at the couch. He licks his lips. "I know why."

 

 

The morning is bright and crisp, birds chirping through the thin-paned glass, sunlight streaming in through the gap in the curtains that Will can never quite close. It steaks across his face, warming his skin. He sighs, rolling onto his other side, and buries his face in his arm.

As much as he would like to remain in bed for longer, he has about two minutes before his alarm goes off, and once that happens, the dogs will start to ask for breakfast. They know better than to wake Will unless in need of urgent bathroom care, and so Will knows he can float in gentle half-sleep for a few moments more before they start barking.

He sighs, pushing himself upright, and rubs a hand over his face. His dreams had been mercifully gentle with him, thank God, and he feels somewhat well-rested. He reaches for his glasses on the bedside table and puts them on, blinking at the red lights of his alarm clock.

Three…two…

The clock ticks over to seven in the morning and starts to beep at him, and he sighs and shuts it off. He pushes the blankets off of his legs and gets to his feet, rubbing his hands through his hair to calm it from the wayward mess of tangled knots as he pads to the bathroom to wash his face.

He takes his glasses off, splashes cold water on his cheeks, and rubs the corners of his eyes to get rid of the itchy clumps of sleep still gathered there, before he puts his glasses back on. He rubs at his jaw, cracks his neck sharply to one side until the knots at the base of his neck pop, and straightens up with another sigh.

One more day in paradise.

It's snowing as he comes downstairs and he pauses, looking at the couches. He's starting to see now, he thinks. Or maybe he always has.

He opens the door and tries to leave. The cold bites at his feet, and his exposed arms, and his head. He walks to his barn and passes through the doors. He hears a car approaching. He must act quickly.

He takes a tank of propane gas and drags it to the back door.

Hannibal finds him there. His eyes are wide. "Will, what are you doing?" he whispers.

"Ending this," Will snaps. He goes back inside and grabs a box of matches from the mantle place.

"No," Hannibal growls.

Will smiles. "You can't stop me."

Hannibal lets out another low snarl. He grabs Will and holds his back to Hannibal's chest, covers his eyes forcefully. "Go back to sleep," he commands. "Go to sleep."

"Hannibal, stop -."

 

 

Three…two…

The clock ticks over to seven in the morning and starts to beep at him, and he sighs and shuts it off. He pushes the blankets off of his legs and gets to his feet, rubbing his hands through his hair to calm it from the wayward mess of tangled knots as he pads to the bathroom to wash his face.

He takes his glasses off, splashes cold water on his cheeks, and rubs the corners of his eyes to get rid of the itchy clumps of sleep still gathered there, before he puts his glasses back on. He rubs at his jaw, cracks his neck sharply to one side until the knots at the base of his neck pop, and straightens up with another sigh.

One more day in -.

 _No_.

Will rushes downstairs. The tank of propane is gone and he goes back to his barn, yanking it into his kitchen. He takes the box of matches and unscrews the cap of the tank, breathing in the fumes of the gas.

He waits, and waits, until he is sure the air is full of it. He strikes the match and throws it at the tank.

 

 

Will shudders to wakefulness, and there is no light. No warm sun. No alarm clock. He pushes himself upright and frowns, looking around. He's in a dark room, he cannot see any of the edges, but he feels cold steel beneath his feet. He walks until he finds a wall, and follows it to a door, and a set of stairs.

He walks up the stairs, passes through the ceiling, and comes to a stop in Hannibal's kitchen.

He smiles.

He wanders the kitchen, then the dining room, until he stops when he sees a light on coming from Hannibal's study. He goes to it and finds the man staring at a fire, a glass of wine in his hand, his elbows on his knees. He looks contemplative and deeply sad.

Will walks forward and takes a seat on the couch next to Hannibal. Hannibal doesn't move.

"Can you see me?" Will asks.

Hannibal swallows and takes a drink of wine. "Yes," he replies.

"Now we can be together," Will replies.

"Your home was familiar to you," Hannibal says. He looks over at Will. "It was a monument to your life, with all its rough and fractured edges. And now it's gone. What happens when you wake up and don't remember anymore?"

Will tilts his head to one side. "How could I ever forget you?" he asks.

"You do forget me," Hannibal says. "Frequently."

Will hums, and looks back at the fire. "Tell me how it happened."

Hannibal closes his eyes. He stinks of pain and sadness. "A killer we were hunting shot you," he says, and turns his face away.

Will hums. "Pity," he replies, rubbing his thumb against the corner of his mouth. "I'd have liked to see him die."

"You did," Hannibal replies. "Because of my anger, and my foolishness, you lost too much blood. Your death is my fault, and I have taken many lives. None of them weigh on me so heavily as yours."

Will sighs. "You have to end this," he says. "I hate seeing you suffer."

"It is only when I see you that that suffering ends," Hannibal replies quietly, opening his eyes and looking to Will again. "I can't, Will. I'm sorry. Call me selfish, call me cruel, but I won't let you leave me."

Will nods, pressing his lips together. "Show me what you've done."

Hannibal stands and leads the way back to the kitchen. He opens the floor to reveal the basement and walks down the stairs. The lights flicker on as he passes as they did not do for Will, and Will gasps when he sees what's inside.

It's his body, strung up like a macabre idol to Christ on the Cross. Pieces of him have been replaced – a patch of skin sewed into his neck to cover up where his flesh started to decay; large sutures where the body ends and the arm of another man begins. His feet match, but are not his own. Clumps of other people's hair stand out, discolored, too straight in places on his head.

His eyes are unchanged, even though they are milky and blank. His head hasn't been cut open.

"Is this what you wanted?" he demands when Hannibal turns to him. "I thought you had learned to bury your ghosts, to hide your skeletons."

Hannibal looks almost ashamed, but righteously so, like he doesn't like Will's judgment of him.

"This is keeping you with me," he says.

"This is _breaking_ me," Will replies. "I lie in pieces in a grave somewhere. Or they buried an empty casket."

Hannibal manages a weak smile. "The latter."

"Please," Will begs, taking Hannibal's hands. "Please. End this. Go to Italy. Go to your home and find your skeletons there. Let me _leave_."

Hannibal sighs, shaking his head almost fondly. "This is how we have always been," he murmurs. "You flee and I follow, or I flee and you follow. A tempting game of cat and mouse."

"This isn't a chase, this is entrapment," Will growls. "Are you so afraid of being alone?"

"I'm not alone," Hannibal replies coolly, and turns back to look at the mockery of Will's body. "I have you."

 

 

Will shudders to wakefulness, and there is no light. No warm sun. No alarm clock. He pushes himself upright and frowns, looking around. He's in a dark room, he cannot see any of the edges, but he feels cold steel beneath his feet. He walks until he finds a wall, and follows it to a door, and a set of stairs.

He walks up the stairs, passes through the ceiling, and comes to a stop in Hannibal's kitchen.

He smiles.

He wanders the kitchen, then the dining room, until he stops when he sees a light on coming from Hannibal's study. He goes to it and finds the man staring at a fire, a glass of wine in his hand, his elbows on his knees.

He looks up when Will enters, and smiles. "Good evening, Will."

"Is it night time?" Will asks, taking a seat by Hannibal and gazing at the fire.

"Yes," Hannibal replies. "Would you like something to drink?"

Will shakes his head. "Why am I here?"

"You burned your house down," Hannibal replies.

"Why would I do that?"

"I can't be sure," Hannibal murmurs, and takes a sip of wine. He sits back and throws one arm over the back of the couch and Will slides closer, resting his forehead against Hannibal's collarbone. He sighs. "I think you wanted to be closer to me."

Will sighs again. "You're projecting," he teases.

Hannibal hums.

"So this is how it is, huh?" Hannibal tilts his head to rest his cheek against Will's hair. He hears Hannibal take a deep breath and sigh. "I missed you."

"And I miss you," Hannibal replies. "Every day."

Will smiles and lifts his head to kiss Hannibal's cheek. "I'm here," he whispers, pleased when Hannibal shivers.

Hannibal swallows, his eyes bright in the light of the fire. "I am so mercilessly cruel to you," he says quietly, swallowing his words with wine. "A better man would let you rest in peace."

"I don't want to leave you," Will replies. It's true in that moment, just as it might not be true in the next.

Hannibal closes his eyes. "I wanted to show you so much," he says. Will straightens, and Hannibal sets his wine glass down on the side table, allowing Will the freedom to crawl into his lap. Will does so, the action familiar and warm, and tucks his face against Hannibal's neck.

"You could come with me," he says.

Hannibal hums. "Sometimes I think about it," he replies.

Will smiles and kisses him again.

 

 

Will shudders to wakefulness, and there is no light. No warm sun. No alarm clock. He pushes himself upright and frowns, looking around. He's in a dark room, he cannot see any of the edges, but he feels cold steel beneath his feet. He walks until he finds a wall, and follows it to a door, and a set of stairs.

He walks up the stairs, passes through the ceiling, and comes to a stop in Hannibal's kitchen.

He smiles.

He wanders the kitchen, then the dining room, until he stops when he sees a light on coming from Hannibal's study. There's a fire, dull and flickering with the last remnants of life. Will presses his lips together, looking around. He doesn't see Hannibal.

He goes to the fire and crouches in front of it, reaching in and grabbing a log. It burns his hands and he hisses, fighting the urge to drop it. He waves it gently back and forth, encouraging the log to burn more brightly and catch air, until it illuminates much of the room.

He smiles when it lights, the flames a happy dancer on the end of the log. Then, he goes to the heavy curtains and presses it against the tassels. They catch quickly. He hums, and drags the log along the bookshelves, the edge of the wooden side table where Hannibal's wine glass still sits. He touches it to the carpet, and the chairs.

He leaves the study as it starts to get hot, and drags the log through the curtains in the dining room, the painting above the mantle place. He sets the log on the dining room table and takes the tablecloth, touches the edges to the flames until it catches.

He rips down one of the curtains and throws it on the stairs, watching as the flames lick through the bannisters and crawl slowly up the edges.

He takes the log again and goes to the basement. The flame illuminates his effigy and he sighs, shaking his head. "Here's to us, my love," he whispers, and opens the mouth of the hanging corpse and shoves the end of the log into its mouth, noting as he does so that the tongue is missing.

 

 

The house is up in flames and Will stands in front of it, his feet bare on the icy ground, his hands in his pockets. Hannibal's hi-beams illuminate his back and he turns to face Hannibal as he parks on the edge of the little driveway and gets out of the car.

"What have you done?" he demands. There's blood on his hands.

Will smiles. "I set you free," he replies. He turns to look back at the house. Even as he watches, he can feel fire touching his burned hands, tastes the heat and ash in his mouth. He's finally dying, diminishing to nothing as he should have the second the last breath left his lungs.

Hannibal comes to a halt beside him, looking at the house. Will doesn't think he's ever seen a man in such heartbreak. "Why?" he whispers.

Will shrugs. He reaches out and takes Hannibal's shaking hand. "You have a choice to make, now," he says. "Let me go or follow me to whatever happens next."

Hannibal takes a step forward, then hesitates. He looks back at Will.

"You are the cruelest thing I have ever seen," he breathes.

Will smiles, and cups Hannibal's cheeks, and kisses him deeply. "I'll save a place for you," he promises. "Whatever you decide."

The flames are curling at his hair, dancing around his feet. He feels warm and alive for the first time in what he realizes must have been years. He can see the age on Hannibal's face, where sorrow and grief have destroyed the joy and vitality that kept him looking so young and refined.

Will closes his eyes, and lets the darkness overtake him, and for once he isn't afraid.

He doesn't remain to see if Hannibal enters the house.


End file.
